With his eyes glued to the repeater screen that showed the vessel’s sound signature as a line of quivering light, Sergei Markova thoughtfully observed, “This is most unusual, comrades. It’s very rare to catch the overly cautious Americans at a sprint speed such as this. One can’t help but wonder where they’re off to in such a hurry.”
“Why that’s only too apparent,” offered Konstantin Zinyagin, as he patted his sweating jowls dry with a handkerchief. “The Sturgeon is obviously bound for the frozen waters of Lancaster Sound, just like we are.”
“The Zampolit’s observations are correct,” concurred Mikhail Kharkov. “For it’s to their advantage to retrieve the Flying Kremlin’s black box before anyone else does and reveals to the world the real cause of our beloved Premier’s tragic passing.”
“Sounds logical to me,” reflected the senior lieutenant.
His glance still riveted on the flashing repeater screen, Sergei cautiously spoke.
“Though this indeed might be the case, we must make certain to keep our minds open. Perhaps they’ve only been sent up into Baffin Bay to check on the contact that their SOSUS line picked up as we entered the Nares Strait.”
“But why travel at such an extreme velocity?” countered the alert white-haired veteran. “At their current speed, their passive sensors will be all but useless except for listening to the crackling ice above and an occasional passing whale below. No, Captain, I tell you that the Imperialists are on a mission of a much greater magnitude. And to insure that they don’t succeed, the Neva must intervene.”
“And just how do you propose to do such a thing?” questioned Sergei.
Mikhail Kharkov was quick to respond.
“Though a well-placed torpedo would be the most logical solution, there’s yet another way open to us, one that doesn’t have such bellicose overtones. I say, ram them.”
Sergei Markova was clearly astounded by this suggestion.
“I strongly disagree. Admiral. It’s much too early to determine the Sturgeon’s exact mission. By intervening at this time, the Neva could very possibly be guilty of a flagrant overreaction that many might look at as a direct act of war.”
“And what do you call shooting down the Flying Kremlin, Captain?” bitterly retorted the Admiral of the Fleet. “The Imperialists are the ones who started this whole thing. And now it’s time to begin evening the score.”
While considering these belligerent words, Sergei queried the seated sonar operator.
“What’s the contact’s range. Chief Magadan?”
The technician efficiently addressed his keyboard and as his monitor screen flashed alive, crisply answered.
“They’ve just broken the fifteen kilometer threshold, sir. At their current speed, intercept will be in another eighteen minutes.”
“Why that still leaves us with plenty of time to set up the ambush,” observed the admiral, a hint of impatience flavoring his tone. “Come to your senses, Captain, and take advantage of this one in a million opportunity that the fates have so kindly brought our way.”
Quite aware that Mikhail Kharkov could easily try to pull rank on him if he so desired, Sergei decided upon a compromise.
“Bring us down to loiter speed, Senior Lieutenant. Activate all stealth systems, and prepare the ship for a collision.”
“Then you’re going to go ahead with it?” queried the expectant admiral.
Sergei hesitated a moment before responding.
“Though I’m still not totally convinced the Americans have been sent here for the same purpose we were sent, circumspection forces me to keep our options open. If the Sturgeon is indeed headed for Lancaster Sound, she will be altering course shortly, just as we were about to do when we first picked them up. If such a course change does in fact occur, then the Neva will close in at once to stop the Americans long before they’re able to further interfere with our mission.”
Relieved by what he was hearing, the Admiral of the Fleet grinned.
“I knew that the Motherland could count on you. Captain Markova. You are a credit to your uniform.”
Ignoring this superfluous remark, Sergei addressed his senior lieutenant.
“Prepare a proper intercept vector should the American’s course turn westward, Viktor. A glancing blow of our bow directed at the stern portion of the Sturgeon should cause enough damage in their engine room to send them topside for repairs.”
As Viktor Belenko turned to the chart table, the Admiral of the Fleet beckoned Sergei to join him at the vacant weapon’s console.
“Something tells me you’ve had experience in carrying out such an unorthodox maneuver before. Captain. If I remember correctly, at the conclusion of the Neva’s second patrol you returned to Polyarny with a peculiar dent in your ship’s reinforced bow. I believe your log mentioned something about striking an uncharted coral reef while cruising deep below the Mediterranean south of Mallorca. At the time I read your report, two things immediately came to mind. The first was that to my knowledge coral is not indigenous to that portion of the Mediterranean. And the second, I couldn’t help but remember the New York Times clipping I had just received telling of an American 688 class submarine that had been involved in a serious underwater collision with an unidentified object in these same waters. I believe that poor 688 had to be towed back to the US navy base at Sicily afterward. Some say it was a miracle it was even able to ascend after it had been so violently struck. Now I wonder what on earth could have hit them like that?”
As he patiently awaited a response, Kharkov studied the face of the young captain much as a father would his son’s. Unable to escape the veteran’s clever trap, Sergei managed the barest of smiles.
“Such an incident is certainly news to me. Admiral. Although who knows, maybe it wasn’t a reef that we struck after all.”
“No, comrade, perhaps it wasn’t.” The white-haired veteran couldn’t help but respect the young officer’s coolness under fire.
“The contact is cutting its forward speed!” It was the voice of the excited sonar operator.
Quick to return to the console, both Sergei Markova and Mikhail Kharkov studied the repeater screen. The electronic line showing the contact’s screw turns had evened out dramatically, and it was obvious that the sub had substantially cut its forward velocity.
“Maybe they’ve spotted us,” offered the Zampolit, who had vigilantly remained at the sonar operator’s side.
“I don’t see how they could,” returned the captain.
“Right now the Neva’s practically dead in the water.
With our stealth system in operation, they would have to go active to even have a chance of locating us. And with our anechoic tiles in place, there’s a good chance even that tactic wouldn’t be fruitful.”
“Maybe they’ve known our position all along, and have only been playing with us,” the paranoid Political Officer said.
Sergei looked out to the repeater screen and replied, “That’s even more unlikely, Comrade Zinyagin. If you ask me, I say that within the next sixty seconds the Yankee skipper is going to reveal his intentions once and for all.”
Barely a half minute later, this prophetic remark came true when the sonar operator pressed his headphones tightly over his ears and then called out loudly for all to clearly hear, “They’re changing course, Captain! The new bearing is two-six-zero.”
“Why that’s almost due west!” exclaimed the admiral. “I told you they’d be headed for Lancaster Sound.”
“It looks like they’re after the black box all right,” observed the ship’s captain as he thoughtfully stroked his square chin. “Senior Lieutenant, put that intercept vector into the navigation computer right now. Those Yankee bastards don’t realize it as yet, but they’ve come as close to spoiling our mission as they’re going to get!”